


And Dangerous to Know

by thought



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:11:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4824995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thought/pseuds/thought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You broke into my apartment. It’s a little late to worry about imposing.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Dangerous to Know

Vanessa gets back from the cPC rally late, most of the windows in her building already dark as she fumbles with her key at the front door. She's hungry, tired, and there's beer soaking ominously through the canvas tops of her sneakers-- it'd seemed like every bus on the Transitway had been packed with drunk hockey fans, made obnoxiously exuberant with the Sens' victory. Climbing the three flights of stairs to her apartment all she's focused on is the promise of the leftover humus in her fridge and the fresh sheets on her bed. She blames this single-mindedness for her her complete lack of useful reaction when stepping into her living room finds her pinned up against the wall with a gloved hand over her mouth and the sort of cold blunt pressure which is uncomfortably close to what she supposes a gun would feel like if it were pressed up against her ribs.

"Shh," the person holding her says unnecessarily. "I don't want to hurt you," and yanks Vanessa's arm higher behind her back, because, apparently, you can't always get what you want.

Vanessa tries to bight the hand covering her mouth. It doesn't work, and she can feel something that is either blood or saliva slowly creeping down her chin. She thinks, very calmly, that she's going to die.

"Listen! I won't hurt you, you just have to be quiet. I'll let you go if you promise not to start yelling. It's either that or I knock you out, and concussions are just inconvenient for everyone."

Vanessa breathes in shakily through her nose, then nods as best she can. Slowly, the other woman pulls her hand away.

"Concussions are brain injuries," Vanessa says. There are black spots swimming on the edges of her vision and she's working very hard not to let her legs give out, but she keeps her voice relatively calm. "I think inconvenient is probably an understatement. Can I turn around?"

"Slowly."

The intruder, when Vanessa gets a good look at her in the dim light from the streetlights outside, looks just as fucking terrifying as she sounds. Black kevlar body armour covers most of her body, splashes of startlingly innocuous greenish blue accenting shoulders and wrists. Her hair is the sort of bright artificial red that usually comes in jars with labels like 'vampiric kiss' or 'scarlet pain', but it's braided tight and efficient against her skull. Looking down, Vanessa has the dubious pleasure of being proved right on the presence of a gun. ...Two of them, actually, now that she's looking, and she doesn't have any clue what the larger vaguely gun-shaped thing is that she's got slung across her back, but Vanessa's also in no hurry to find out.

"I'm sorry about this," she says. "You can go sit on the sofa, but leave your bag. And give me your phone."

Vanessa obeys, keeping her movements slow and non-threatening. Once she's seated, she says "My name's Vanessa. Can I ask yours?"

"Carolina," she says shortly. She's got a mess of small tools and wires spread out over the coffee table, and a first aid kit open on the floor.

"It's good to meet you. What brings you to my apartment at midnight on a Thursday?"

Carolina snorts. "This isn't a date, you don't' have to make small talk. I need to finish this, make sure the assholes who were following me are gone, and then you'll never see me again. You just need to sit there and be quiet."

"I would certainly hope this isn't how your dates go," Vanessa says.

Carolina pours a copious amount of disinfectant on a cotton pad and tips her head forward, swiping across the back of her neck. "You'd be surprised."

Vanessa doubts that. "So you make a habit of breaking and entering?"

"Technically, I only entered. Your window was unlocked." She grabs up a set of very small pliers, checks something on her phone, and walks over to stand in front of the mirror on the bathroom door. She holds her phone up in one hand, tilting it and glancing in the mirror until she seems satisfied. Vanessa doesn't realize what she's planning to do until she's already stuck the pliers into the back of her neck. Vanessa's up off the sofa and across the room before she's really conscious of what she's doing, and she's right up in Carolina's personal space, one hand out to grab her arm, before she's brought up short by Carolina's gun. Vanessa really fucking hates guns on principle, and this up close and personal experience is only intensifying that. Carolina's dropped her phone to the carpet, but she's still holding the pliers at the back of her neck, arm twisted up awkwardly.

"Sit the fuck down," Carolina snarls.

"Tell me what you're doing," Vanessa says, keeping her voice down with an effort.

Carolina huffs out a frustrated breath. "I'm not... hurting myself, or whatever it is you're thinking. Look." She turns a bit, still watching Vanessa in the mirror, and shifts her arm out of the way so Vanessa can get a clear view of her neck.

There'd lines of scar tissue, surgical straight and still raised and angry against her skin. There are also what look like two very small strips of metal or plastic, dull grey and embedded in her skin. It's into one of these tat Carolina's slid the pliers, the strip of grey lifted open like the memory card slot on Vanessa's phone. There's no blood-- at least not from the open port, though looking closer Vanessa notes a concerning clump of dried blood just behind her left ear, the skin scraped raw and ragged.

"What are they?"

"A long story," she says shortly. "And broken. At least this one."

She picks up her phone again, and Vanessa realizes she's using the front-facing camera as a second mirror so she can watch what she's doing with the pliers. Carolina stares pointedly until Vanessa backs off, perching on the cinder blocks that are currently serving as her coffee table/bookshelf. Carolina hunches forward and starts poking around with the pliers, bighting her bottom lip in concentration. After about a minute she jerks, and a tiny spark dances across her neck. Vanessa twitches, but stays seated.

"It's just a bit of loose wiring," Carolina says absently. "Better than breaking my neck, which is mostly what I thought was going to happen, but it still fucks with my nervous system."

"What were you doing?" Vanessa asks.

"Fucking up a weapons dealer and his very well-paid security force."

Vanessa considers the answer, the weird technology, the high-end equipment. "You're military, right?" she asks coolly.

Carolina twists the pliers hard. "Haha," she says. "No. Especially not if you ask them."

"Reassuring," Vanessa says dryly.

"It wasn't meant to be," she says. And then "Fuck. That's probably gonna stain, sorry."

"What?" Vanessa asks. Carolina shrugs, and straightens enough to wipe the blood pouring from her nose onto her sleeve. "Jesus."

"This is fine," Carolina says quickly. "Are you absolutely sure they're classified as brain injuries?"

"Sit down," Vanessa says sharply. "And stop trying to perform minor surgery on yourself-- give that to me. Keep your head tipped forward." She's already snatched away the pliers before it dons on her with a sick sort of horror that she's slipped from crisis de-escalate into her 'this meeting was supposed to end three hours ago and you've made the undergrads cry again' voice. She spends the five seconds before Carolina folds down to the floor absolutely convinced she's about to die. Carolina has already tilted her head forward and is pinching her nose. Her free hand is shaking.

"Stay there," Vanessa says, dragging her voice back to calm. "I'm going to get the first aid kit."

She thinks about making a run for it while Carolina's distracted, but the idea of leaving her there on the floor seems needlessly cruel. Sort of like breaking into someone's apartment and pinning them against a wall. It's not like she wouldn't be justified. She drags the first aid kit from under the counter, and when she turns around Carolina is watching her intently. For a moment, when Vanessa straightens up, Carolina's gaze gives the impression of a frightened wild animal, waiting to be hurt, but by the time she's stepped back into the living room it's gone back to vaguely threatening professional spy, or whatever the buck she is when she's at home.

Vanessa crouches down beside her, and holds out a wad of gauze to mop up the blood on her face. "Let go for a sec," she says. "I'm going to spray some antiseptic on it. If that's OK?" She adds the last after a too-long pause, chiding herself mentally-- probably don't order around the woman with the gun.

Carolina pulls her hand back, and Vanessa applies the spray to her nose as quickly as she can. Once Carolina's returned to holding it, Vanessa turns to the wound behind her ear. There're bits of dirt mashed into the torn skin, and she automatically rests a hand on Carolina's shoulder when she starts to clean it out. Carolina's muscles are rock hard with tension under her hand, her skin hot, radiating through the body armour. Vanessa hadn't been thinking fever until now.

"That's a well-stocked med kit for a civilian," Carolina observes. She's breathing evenly through her mouth, not even flinching when Vanessa has to use tweezers to remove some of the bits of dirt and gravel embedded in her skin. Vanessa is intimately aware the many ways that a lack of reaction to pain can be just as bad as an over-reaction.

"Yeah," she says. "I guess it is."

Carolina doesn't press further-- there's no secret, Vanessa just happens to know a lot of people who would rather avoid dealing with institutionalised healthcare whenever possible, but the faintly patronizing way Carolina says "civilian" sets her teeth on edge. Once she's done as much as she can for the head wound, Vanessa slides her hand carefully up higher on Carolina's shoulder, keeping her touch firm enough to be obvious in her actions but light enough that Carolina can easily shrug her off.

"Would you-- No, do you need me to try and fix the wiring problem?"

Carolina shakes her head carefully. "It's fine. It was a long shot to hope I could fix it myself, anyway."

"Do you have... doctors? Professionals? People who can fix it?"

"Not anymore," Carolina says with that same aggressively upbeat tone that she'd used to reassure Vanessa that she was fine.

"I honestly don't mind giving it a go if you tell me what I'm meant to be doing."

Carolina shakes her head again. "I don't want to do any more damage. I can deal with it."

"You said it's linked to your nervous system."

"Amongst other things."

"You also said you're being chased by a criminal's security forces."

"Also true."

"And you've got a concussion," Vanessa adds, because the closer she watches Carolina the more certain she becomes.

"Concussion is a strong word."

"Look, why don't you stay here for the rest of the night, at least? You could probably use some sleep, and maybe the people chasing you will give up by the morning."

Carolina twists to stare at her. "Because you're a complete stranger, and I've invaded your home and threatened you with a gun? There's taking risks and then there's stupidity."

Vanessa sits back on her heels. "That's a valid concern," (and it's a little alarming that Carolina has thought of it before Vanessa) "and there's no way I can prove to you that you'll be safe here. You already have my phone. My laptop is in my backpack over there. I'll stay in my bedroom, the window's too small to climb out of, you can check for yourself. And from a practical standpoint, if I did contact the authorities, there's no guarantee that they'll actually catch you, and I'd rather not spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder in case you decide you want payback. Besides, I'm still not convinced you aren't working for some branch of the military or government. So if you rule out me calling for help, the only other possibility is that I get out of the apartment and hide somewhere until you're gone. Which will hardly matter to you. But all that being said, I just want to get some rest, and I'd rather do that knowing you aren't trying to fight off a bunch of violent criminals with a concussion and mysterious issues with your ...brain...implant. As long as you promise not to kill me in my sleep, I'd like to see you safe."

Carolina watches her consideringly. Her eyes are an alarmingly vivid green. Finally she nods shortly. "Leave your bag out here. Show me your bedroom."

Vanessa does not make the comparison to the last woman who said those words to her aloud, but she certainly thinks it. Even injured Carolina moves with the easy sort of fluidity of someone who is entirely comfortable in their body. She evaluates the risk factors of Vanessa's tiny bedroom at a glance, nodding briskly and continuing on into the kitchen. Vanessa leans against the fridge while Carolina scrubs the blood off of her hands and face at the tap. She has to stretch up on her toes to grab a glass from the shelf above the sink, and Vanessa's attention snags on the sharp edges of her shoulderblades and the way the muscles on her shoulders literally fucking ripple as she moves. Vanessa was unaware they did that outside of books about manly heroes or large cats.

Carolina drops the glass when it's only half filled with water. It lands in the sink, unharmed, but her entire left arm is twitching sharply like the beginning of a seizure. Vanessa steps forward fast, shifting at the last second so she's not approaching Carolina from directly behind.

"I'm fine," Carolina snaps. Vanessa clasps her hands together behind her back to forestall her desire to reach out. Carolina's braced herself against the counter with her right arm, bent forward over the sink and breathing fast. There's a tear sliding down her cheek, but Vanessa isn't sure if it's born of frustration or just a physical reaction to the pain.

"Is this going to get worse?" Vanessa asks. "Is there someone you can contact who will be able to help?"

"I don't know," Carolina bights out. "I never asked for the fucking specs before they implanted me."

"Really?" Vanessa's surprised. Carolina practically snarls at her.

"Really. You shouldn't be surprised, I'm just another mindless soldier in the military industrial complex, right? I saw your bookshelves."

"You're a person," Vanessa said. "And you were hurt. Did anyone ever offer you the opportunity to ask those sorts of questions?"

"Are we really having this discussion right now?" Carolina demands.

"Ok, no. You're right. Is there anything you need?"

"I'm fine." Her arm has stopped twitching, but her hands still shake and she's moving the left side of her face in that cautious, poorly controlled way that people do when they've had freezing at the dentist. The last thing Vanessa thinks she is is fine.

"There are blankets on the back of the sofa. Pain killers in the first aid kit. I'm going to come check on you every couple hours and I'll be waking you up, so please don't' sleep with your gun under your pillow."

Carolina nods shortly, and doesn't move from in front of the sink. Vanessa stands watching her for a long few seconds, but she remains unmoving and finally Vanessa retreats into her bedroom. She lies awake most of the night, staring at the ceiling and shaking a bit from the adrenaline comedown. Each time she checks on Carolina the other woman jerks awake, aggressively defensive even when mostly incoherent with exhaustion and the probably too many painkillers it looks like she's taken. By the time the sun is starting to sneak over the horizon Vanessa's eyes are sore and her head is pounding but she's gotten very good at the combination of gentle reassurance and firm instructions to keep Carolina from punching her in the face.

At eight AM she trudges into the kitchen and sits slumped at the table while the kettle boils. Carolina enters just as she's pouring water over her tea.

"Coffee?" she asks hopefully? She's wrapped herself in one of the blankets from the sofa, and she's carrying her smaller gun. Her hair has come partly undone during the night, and a few chunks hang in her face.

"Sorry, only tea."

The betrayed look Carolina levels on her is not dissimilar to what she imagines she would look like if Vanessa had just admitted to murdering puppies in her spare time. She takes down another mug and spoons tea into the bottom.

"I should go," Carolina says.

"It's tea, it's not going to kill you."

"I've imposed long enough."

"You broke in. It's a little late to worry about imposing-- that was a joke, Carolina. Sit down."

Carolina sits, but she still looks on the verge of running off. She also still looks on the verge of collapse, which is concerning Vanessa probably more than it should be.

"Do you have someone who can come get you?" Vanessa asks.

Carolina shakes her head. "I'll be fine. You were right, the assholes chasing me last night have moved on."

Vanessa decides she's not even going to ask how Carolina knows that. "And you'll be OK to get somewhere safe?"

Carolina nods quickly. "It's fine. I've dealt with worse."

"That's not reassuring," Vanessa says, and sets the tea on the table along with a container of left over fruit salad. "Do you have any food allergies?"

Carolina blinks. "Uh. No."

Vanessa nods and pops bread in the toaster. Carolina drinks the tea fast, and Vanessa silently pours her another cup. The toast pops up and Carolina startles badly enough that she almost drops her mug. Vanessa politely ignores it, focusing her attention on slathering peanut butter on the toast.

"You need to eat something," she says when Carolina arches an eyebrow at the plate set down in front of her. "I know you're probably still feeling sick, but at least try to get a bit down."

Carolina eats quietly, and Vanessa watches birds out the window and tries not to make the silence awkward. When she's done, Carolina gets to her feet.

"Thank you," she says, a little stiff and uncomfortably formal for someone who still has a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and toast crumbs at the corner of her mouth.

"Are you sure you'll be alright?" Vanessa asks.

Carolina watches her for a minute. "Yeah," she says. "I mean. The answer to the question you're asking is yes."

Vanessa wants to press further with that, but Carolina slips out of the kitchen and Vanessa's left trailing in her wake. She folds the blankets neatly, closes up the first aid kit. Vanessa watches, feeling helpless and uncertain. Carolina slides the larger gun onto her back and frowns.

"Your neighbours going to be around?"

"Possibly," Vanessa says. "Here." She grabs one of her hoodies off the back of a chair and tosses it to Carolina. Carolina drapes it over her shoulders-- it doesn't do a great job of hiding the weapons, but at a glance it will do.

"Be careful," Vanessa says. "Please."

Carolina gives her a quick smile. "Yeah. You too. Get better locks."

"Yes," Vanessa says fervently.

Carolina nods, swings open the door. "Thanks, Vanessa," she says, and then she's gone. Vanessa sits down hard on the sofa and spends the next couple hours curled up under a blanket breathing deeply.

She tries not to think about Carolina. She gets new locks, googles ten different ways to get blood stains out of carpet, replenishes her first aid kit. Life moves on. She keeps a close eye on the news for the first few days, but no reports of a mysterious body show up, which is a small reassurance (if Carolina was killed she doubts it would make it to public news) but is all that she can think to do.

By the time a months' past, she's well on her way to marking the events of that night as one of those incredibly strange stories one tells one's hypothetical grandkids. October brings colder weather and an abundance of apples, and Vanessa finds herself volunteered to host an evening of 'how many recipes can you make with apples?'. There are at least fifteen people crammed into her tiny apartment, and probably three hundred apples. When someone knocks at her door around nine, she assumes it's yet another friend or acquaintance who has been drawn in by the excessive live-tweeting of the applepocalypse.

She swings the door open, brushing flour off the front of her shirt, and freezes. Carolina smiles up at her with a split lip, and holds up a cardboard tray. The sleeves of Vanessa's hoodie are pulled down over her hands.

"I brought the fucking coffee with me this time," she says brightly, and promptly passes out.


End file.
